I kinda lose my mind, yeah…

Last weekend I was beyond snarky. I pulled a cardboard box from the recycling and headed (stomped) to my basement studio. I needed paint on my hands and in my hair and to get the hell away from people…all people. Thanks to the late Ric Ocasek, these lyrics capture what I was feeling.

The Cars, Just What I Needed

I don’t mind you comin’ here
And wastin’ all my time, time
‘Cause when you’re standin’ oh so near
I kinda lose my mind, yeah

I settled down after some time creating—always good for everyone in my orbit. The Butterfly Effect of creativity I suppose. Here are the results of my efforts.

before and after antique glaze is applied

I prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.
― Willa Cather, My Ántonia

matter is neither…

created nor destroyed…the total amount of mass and energy in the universe is constant. —Law of Conservation of Mass, discovered by Antoine Lavoisier in 1785

matter: the formless substratum of all things which exists only potentially and upon which form acts to produce realities —Merriam Webster

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of matter and how I spend my time, resources, and energy. I’m not a first responder, teacher, food producer, or any of the many admirable front line workers that kept us going during this remarkably challenging COVID19 year.

I’m an artist and making things and thinking about making things takes up a lot of my time…most actually. I think in potential constantly to produce other realities.

So, does making art in my basement studio matter in any way right now?

I just don’t know.

Here’s what I do know. I was unsettled the other day. I cleaned my studio. There was a lot of cardboard. I rescued it from the recycling. I created the work below. I felt much more settled.

Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are.

—Chinese proverb

navigating uncertainty…

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
…live in the question.”

―Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet